Chapter 32
“I want you.”
Her words hung in the steam between them. Jen had no armor left—no problem to solve, no crisis to outrun.
Just her. Asking for what she wanted. For the first time in longer than she could remember.
Wyatt stilled, something raw breaking across his face—relief, ache, something deeper he didn’t try to hide.
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Heat and reverence in the press of his mouth, as if he’d waited longer than he knew how to measure.
She kissed him back, her hands finding his shoulders. His skin was smooth under her palms—until it wasn’t. Scars broke the surface, ridged and uneven beneath her fingertips.
When she rose onto her toes, he caught her, hands steady at her waist. A shiver traced down her spine as the water cooled, pebbling her skin.
Wyatt pulled back, his brows knitting briefly before he reached for the robe. Warm from the heated rail, he wrapped it around her, then secured a towel at his own waist.
His gaze flicked over her once—checking, deciding—and then he swept her up before she could protest.
She leaned against him, her head tipping forward until her cheek rested against the solid plane of his chest, her arms looping around his neck.
He carried her to his bedroom and set her down gently on the bed—the same one she’d woken in hours earlier.
The robe clung to her damp skin as he lowered himself beside her, close enough that the mattress dipped, drawing her into his warmth.
He reached for the robe’s tie, his movement slowing at the last second. His knuckles brushed her skin.
She tensed and his hands hesitated before the knot came undone.
The robe loosened, revealing her skin marked with scattered bruises, the curve of her hip beneath them.
His hand skimmed her ribs. She flinched and he froze.
“Sore?”
“A little. Just bruised.”
His jaw set as he took in the purple blooms across her ribcage where she’d hit metal.
“Show me where.” His voice roughened. “So I don’t…”
“Here.” She guided his hand, pressing his fingers lightly to the tender spots.
He kissed around them. Then closer—adjusting, learning her limits as he went.
“I’ll work around them,” he said, voice low. “Until they fade.”
She reached for him, her hands finding the carved lines of his chest. A scar caught beneath her palm, twisted and unyielding. She traced it and something in him tightened, a sharp shift under her touch. She lifted her hand, but he caught it and pressed her fingers back to his skin.
“You can touch me. I want you to.”
She ran her fingers over the landscape of his shoulders. The hard ridges of his abdomen and lower where his towel was taut over the hard length of him.
His breath shifted, tension gathering under her touch as he leaned in. He lifted the edge of the robe and dabbed a droplet from her shoulder, then another from the hollow of her throat.
He followed with his mouth.
Warm lips skimming her just-dried skin.
One kiss—
Then another, slower.
A third, edged with the faint scrape of his teeth.
Collarbone.
Her throat.
The sensitive stretch between her breasts.
The robe loosened as his hand anchored at her waist—keeping her there, as if she might drift without it.
His mouth claimed her breast. A kiss over the curve—then the light flick of his tongue over her nipple.
She gasped, arching into him, greedy for more.
His hand cupped her other breast, broad and warm, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate pressure that sent heat spiraling through her.
Her pulse scattered, and she dug her fingers into the sheets, fighting for control. The way Wyatt kissed her—hot and slow—it felt like worship.
His fingers moved with quiet precision as he eased the robe open, parting the fabric until it gathered beneath her. She was bare to him now—bruises, softness, every place she felt exposed.
“God…” His voice dropped to a reverent hush. “You’re—” He exhaled. “You’re beautiful.”
His hand caressed her hip, unhurried, his fingers tracing the length of her thigh like he was learning her by touch. And all the time a muscle jumped in his jaw as if he was holding something back.
He could take whatever he wanted.
Instead, he gave.
He drifted lower, pressing kisses to the curve of her hipbone, her stomach, the top of her thigh.
“Let me.” He nipped her skin. “Please.”
She nodded, couldn’t speak—fingers buried in his hair, breath slipping out in a soft sigh as she lay back on the bed.
He kissed the inside of her knee as if it was the holiest place he’d ever been, and her chest tightened, air catching halfway in.
His stubble scraped lightly against her skin, the rasp of it making her hips twitch.
He didn’t react, didn’t grab or press. He just kissed higher.
Until she couldn’t think past the next breath.
She stopped trying to hold back. Let herself want it—him—without apology.
God.
By the time he reached her inner thigh, her hands were fisting the sheets, her breath breaking into short, uneven bursts.
He looked up. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
“It doesn’t.” She reached for him, her hands moving down his arms, over the ink etched into his skin—marks of a past that no longer owned him.
“Say stop if you need to.”
“I won’t.”
“Say it anyway.”
Her throat thickened. “Stop, if I need to.”
His mouth curved into the smallest smile. “That’s it.”
He kissed her again—right where she was already shaking.
Her whole body arched. When she tried to shift, to open wider, her thighs protested—still tender from riding.
“Slow,” he murmured, hands steadying her hips. “We’ve got time.”
She thought she knew what was coming.
She was so wrong.
His tongue traced her nub with precision, circling once, then again, the pressure light, then firmer. Devoted. Like this was all that mattered.
Her pulse quickened, and her hips moved without permission.
His arm braced under her thigh, holding her together as his touch threatened to tear her apart.
Every time she got close, he eased back just enough to keep her teetering. Thought fractured. There was only the pull of her muscles, the tightening low in her belly, the edge that kept rising—
“Wyatt,” she gasped.
He hummed in response, an indistinct sound that shattered whatever control she had left.
She looked down and found him watching her. Like he was painting her. With his mouth. With his hands. The thought hit deep, heat coiling through her. And when his fingers joined his mouth, slipping inside her with that same patient care, curling just right, stretching her—
She broke apart with a sob, pleasure crashing through her in waves. Her hands flew to her mouth, but Wyatt caught them, pulling them away before she could hide the sound. He pressed a kiss to each palm.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “I want to hear you.”
As if he needed to know she was here—with him, choosing this.
His mouth returned to her inner thigh, a softer kiss this time, while his fingers gradually guided her back to earth.
Her legs trembled, her body still echoing with sensation, as if she’d been pushed past her limits and only now felt the aftermath.
She didn’t open her eyes. Her whole body felt liquid, remade.
Wyatt stretched out beside her, one hand resting at her hip, his heat against her side. His thumb traced languid arcs against her skin. “Are you okay?”
She laughed, surprised. “I don’t know.”
“Good don’t know or bad don’t know?” He nuzzled the crook of her neck.
“Good.” She reached for him, her hand skimming his jaw, stubble rough under her palm. “Really good.”
She wanted this.
This man.
Everything that came with him—even the parts that scared her.
There was no going back.